


yellow lamps on blackened skies

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, and harry being harry, basically 5k words of, louis being a competitive little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 16:59:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5256392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis is the best baker in his apartment building until his new neighbour shows up and threatens his position (and his dignity). It turns out that actually, he might have a competitive streak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	yellow lamps on blackened skies

Louis wouldn’t call himself a competitive guy, per say.

He’s usually pretty reasonable. He lets his mum win when they play Just Dance most of the time, and he only ever really goes hard when it’s something important, like Mario Kart, which is the extent to which he finds himself in competitive scenarios, really – he’s long since accepted his incompatibility with anything involving running, and even the egg and spoon race is a challenge when you’re uncoordinated.

Louis wouldn’t call himself possessive either. He’ll always lend someone a book or a DVD, even when it has led to half of his Harry Potter box set accumulating in his neighbour’s flat, and he prides himself on baking something when it’s a special occasion for anybody that he speaks to in his apartment building.

And then Harry Styles moves in on the third floor.

::

Louis' not really used to being particularly popular, but in his apartment building he’s actually gathered quite the reputation – which is probably mostly to do with the baking, but still, Louis can dream that they’re actually impressed by his sense of humour, the puns especially.

It starts when he first moves in, and he spends the day feeling horrifically aware that his new neighbours are peeping through their doors at the guy too cheap to pay removal men and therefore trying to lug an impressively large box of CDs up the stairs alone – a great first impression, doubtlessly improved even more by having his first conversation with his neighbour, Ted, who seemed charmingly oblivious to his red face and collapsing lungs, on the stairs while he could barely breathe from a steady lack of exercise throughout his life.

“Are you okay, mate?” Ted had eventually asked, looking concerned – perhaps he’d realised that Louis was holding a box that seemed, in the moment, to weigh more than his body weight, but that might have been because he’d been holding it for at least ten minutes.

“Peachy,” Louis had winced.

And then Ted had raised his eyebrow, just a little bit, and Louis had a moment of horror as he realised that his perhaps-almost-friend had probably re-evaluated him as a bit of a weird one, and his momentary dreams of watching football matches together on Sundays with a pint flashed before his eyes.

So Louis, naturally, turned to him and blurted out, “hey, do you want some lemon drizzle?”

As it happened, it worked out.

::

Louis became immersed in the world of baking in two ways – partially from spending too many Saturdays as a child indulging his grandma by joining her for afternoon tea, and also because it turned out that, in spite of his grandma’s culinary prowess, neither of his parents could actually cook very well.

He’d done it as a child, as most kids do. It hadn’t been proper baking – more so just pouring pre-made mixture into little cake holders and shoving a cake in the oven before making it his mission to hide whatever golden brown colours emerged in a sea of sprinkles and hundreds and thousands – but even then, he’d loved it, and when his grandma started asking him and his sister if they wanted to help her bake all the cakes for afternoon tea at the weekends, Louis had said yes and he hadn’t even pretended to be cool about it. Baking was cool, anyway, he was at least 80% sure of it.

(“Nah,” his sister had said, and hadn’t looked up from playing on her Nintendo DS.)

And so that’s how he spent most of his weekends growing up, cooped up in his grandma’s little kitchen with flour on his hands, and on the green-and-white tiled floors and the normally spotless kitchen counter. And even when he’d got older, and he had friends, and girlfriends, and was way too cool to spend his free time with his family, he’d still make an exception for his grandma and her baking trays.

He didn’t eat so much of it, because after a while the novelty of having cake whenever you want it wears off and Louis realised that food tastes a whole lot better when you haven’t gone through the process of making it yourself. But behind the backs of his friends and the boys at school – because the last thing Louis really needed was text messages from the lads along the lines of “hey mate dont suppose u could make us some pot brownies haha” which would inevitably be the result of that, and growing up had made him only about 20% sure baking was cool, Louis and his grandma were the ultimate baking team. They’d supply bake sales for his grandma’s neighbours and charity events, and fund-raisers at her local church. They’d contribute when someone in the family had a party or when one of his grandma’s friends was having a hard time, and they’d hold their own bake sales for charity sometimes, too.

It was messy, and it was time-consuming, and the house always smelled like bread baking or cakes cooling, and Louis loved it.

And over the years, he got good at it.

::

Mrs Williamson is one of the first people Louis meets when he moves into the apartment building, and he likes her because she’s kind and has framed pictures of cats on her piano, in more of an adorable old woman way than a Dolores Umbridge kind of way. She lets Louis play her piano sometimes, and reminds him of his grandma, and he returns all of her unintentional favours by baking for her at every chance he gets.

Ever since their first meeting, when she came to greet the new resident on the second floor just in time to join Ted in receiving a piece of lemon drizzle, she’s loved his baking, and she also doesn’t accidentally on purpose rob half of Louis' DVD collection, so he likes her a lot more than he likes Ted.

::

Louis first meets ‘the new guy’ on the stairs, which seems to be a pretty popular haunt for the residents of Abbott Court.

“Oh,” he says. He has long curly hair, and Louis can’t see his face for the fact that he’s currently tying his shoe half way up a stairwell, which can never be a good idea. “Hello, sorry,” he stands up, and gives Louis a shy smile, and outstretches his hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. My names Harry.”

Louis blinks. “Hi,” he says. “No, I don’t think we have. Have you just moved in?” a small voice in the back of his head screeches the reminder that they have literally never seen each other before, and Abbott Court isn’t exactly a big place. “Stupid question, obviously you have. Unless you’re some sort of recluse who shut themselves off for a few months – and I’m sure you’re not. I mean, you don’t look like the type.”

He sort of wants to beat himself up. But Harry just laughs, and Louis silently curses the fact that not only is he still in this apparently endless phase of shyness and social incapability, Harry is actually kind of attractive, which is never good. Apparently his flaws just have to manifest themselves at the absolute worst moments.

“Don’t I?” he sounds amused, and he’s smiling.

“Um. Well. Probably not. You do have the hair for it.”

Harry says, “so do you.”

Louis shrugs and says, “well, maybe I’m the recluse of the second floor.”

It turns out that Harry is far from a recluse – he has half of the building as his best friends within a week. Louis, on the other hand, walks at a faster pace down the stairs when he sees him coming out of his flat.

::

Louis is not a competitive person, necessarily, but he is the sort of person who will shoot a blue shell at his dad on Mario Kart.

::

On Mrs Williamson’s 80th birthday, half of the building seem to gather inside of her flat, which Louis considers quite an impressive feat in itself. He’s not surprised about the numbers though, because Mrs Williamson is possibly the most welcoming woman in London and seems to take it upon herself to adopt any new resident which moves in. Louis considers her to be the only reason most of the people in the building even talk to each other, let alone have become friends.

“Did you bake something this year?” Sarah asks, almost scaring Louis out of his own skin when she appears beside him like a fucking phantom.

“Jesus,” he says. “What have I told you about doing that?”

“Not to do it, probably,” Sarah says, shrugging. “I never really listen to what you say when you start it with Jesus in a high-pitched voice. I don’t think most people do.”

“Nice to know,” Louis mock-glares at her. “Who made Darcy’s birthday cake again?”

Sarah grins. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Why do you think I’m asking? Your birthday cakes are the best.”

Louis can’t help but smile at her when she says that, even though objectively at this point Louis does know that he’s a good baker. Back as he was growing up, no one ever really knew that he baked at all, bar his parents who seemed a little disinterested, in spite of trying (bless them) and his grandma who sang his praises and for that very reason was not to be trusted. Louis' never been sporty, or particularly academic, or good at art, or excelled in music; he can do drama alright and he can play the piano okay, but he’s never had something he’s really good at, and it’s nice to finally have something. It’s nice to be known in the building as Louis who bakes, and have his friends hint when their birthdays are coming up, and even for Ted to ransack his kitchen at every possible moment.

He doesn’t say all of that to Sarah, though. Instead, he takes a mock bow.

“Thank you,” he says. “I’ll make sure to ice your next cake with my autograph.”

Sarah rolls her eyes. “Is that a yes, then?”

“Is that a joke? Of course it’s a yes. Victoria sponge. Mrs Williamson likes that.”

“Oh, she does,” Sarah says absently. “Always going on about how it’s her favourite.”

“It’s a bit simple,” Louis says, with the smallest hint of a frown. “I wanted to do something a bit more, y'know, wow, because it’s her eightieth birthday, but-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Sarah says. “You know it’s Mrs Williamson’s favourite. She wouldn’t like anything better.”

Louis smiles. “Thanks,” he says, and he hopes she’s right. Across the room, he notices Harry 'the new guy’ Styles who Ted has cornered into conversing with him, and he’s not even surprised. He may have only been here a month, but Mrs Williamson moves fast. She probably loves him like a son already.

::

When Louis presents Mrs Williamson with her cake, as he does every year, she still manages to look on the verge of tears with surprise and gratitude as if it’s not something he does annually.

“It’s just a sponge cake,” Louis dismisses. “Really, it’s not a problem.”

“It’s lovely of you,” the old woman says, giving him a squeeze of gratitude on the shoulder. “It’s my favourite recipe, and you know how I love your cake, Louis.”

Louis' cheeks flush with pride, in spite of himself, and Ted interrupts the conversation with a mouthful of sponge cake.

::

Mrs Williamson’s birthday party is an event most of the building attend every year, and every year everybody eats a slice of Louis' cake, and he feels a flush of pride and Ted tells him that he’s the best baker in Abbott Court.

This year, for the first time, he has some competition.

::

“Looks like you have some competition, Tomlinson,” Ted says, slapping him on the back.

Louis, for the second time of the night, almost jumps out of his own skin. “Jesus-”

“No one listens to you when you start a sentence with that-”

“Alright, fine, but some warning would be nice next time,” Louis grumbles.

Ted shrugs. “Sorry,” he says, and then he takes a bite out of the slice of cake in his hand that Louis most certainly did not bake.

Louis stares at it.

“Anyway,” Ted continues, a moment later. “As I was saying. Yeah, man, looks like you got some competition. Harry is awesome.”

“It’s not a competition, Ted. It’s nice that Mrs Williamson got two cakes, that’s all.”

“You’re totally gonna check them both and see which has been eaten the most, aren’t you?”

He totally is.

“Of course not Ted. That’d be childish. And illogical. You know, they were different sizes, people have different slice sizes, some people prefer different types of cake-”

Ted smirks as he chomps through yet another slice of Harry’s oh-so incredible coffee cake and Louis hopes it tastes like betrayal.

“You should have a slice,” Ted says. “Go on. It’s really good.”

“No, I’m good-”

“Why not? You’re always complaining you don’t like eating your own baking. Why not try someone else’s?”

“That’s what bakeries are for, Ted-”

“I thought you were all about free food, Louis,” Ted shakes his head. “Can’t believe you’ve fallen victim for our capitalist society.”

“…I’m just not very hungry right now,” Louis says.

Sarah comes up behind the two of them with two plates of coffee cake, and hands one to Louis.

“You have to try it! It tastes so good! You and Harry should go into business together, open up a bakery. And give me free discounts,” she rambles, and Louis stares at the plate of Harry's baking in his hand and blinks, and Ted smirks, and Louis wonders if Harry Styles' coffee cake is all it’s cracked up to be.

As it turns out, it is.

::

“Sarah,” Louis says.

“Louis,” Sarah says. “Why are you lying on my living room floor, again?”

“I’m playing with Darcy,” Louis says. It’s kind of true. They were playing a game, but he’s fairly certain she got bored and went off to play in her room a few minutes ago, and Louis is thinking about how Harry Styles is better at baking than he is.

“…Right,” Sarah doesn’t look convinced.

“Sarah.”

“Yes, Louis?”

“I’m having an identity crisis.”

Sarah raises an eyebrow. “And why exactly is that?”

“Because I was the baker. And now Harry is the baker, and I’m just the guy who hates losing at Mario Kart and lets Ted steal all of his stuff,” Louis says. His vocal tone of undisguised self pity is half a joke. Or at least a quarter.

“Has Ted not given you your stuff back?” Sarah asks. “I can talk to him.”

“That wasn’t the point.”

“Oh. Right,” Sarah stares at him for a moment. “What are you talking about, Lou?”

Darcy toddles back into the room, and Louis says, “never mind.”

::

After a night of wallowing in self pity and watching reruns of Friends, Louis manages to recharge his batteries. Or something along those lines. Either way, he decides that he’s not going to admit defeat and vows to reclaim his title as the best baker in Abbott Court.

::

Louis encounters Harry in the hall.

“Oh, hi Louis!” Harry says. He smiles, like it isn’t nine thirty in the morning, and when Louis is this tired it’s surely alright to acknowledge the fact that he has ridiculously pretty eyes.

“Hey,” Louis says.

“So, I was hoping I’d run into you. Your birthday cake for Mrs Williamson was great, honestly. Probably one of the nicest Victoria sponge cakes I’ve had.”

“Oh,” Louis says. He rubs his neck, awkwardly, and he feels flattered while simultaneously like a massive dickhead. “Well. Thank you, that’s really nice of you.”

“It’s well-deserved. I didn’t know you baked.”

“Yeah, uh. It’s something I’m pretty into, I guess…”

“Me too! Maybe we’ll end up as rivals on Great British Bake Off one day.”

We’re already rivals here, Louis thinks darkly, and his inner monologue tells him to shut the fuck up.

“Maybe,” Louis says absently.

“I was wondering, do you have a particular recipe for your cake? It seemed so much nicer than usual ones.”

“Well, I guess I do-”

“Would you be willing to share? We could trade baking tips.”

The thing is, Harry looks genuinely earnest, and kind, but he is still, doubtlessly, the enemy.

“Um, yeah, sure…”

“Really?”

Louis thinks that hell will probably freeze over before he willingly gives his baking secrets to the enemy. The next thing he’ll know half of the building will be eating Harry’s Victoria sponge and Louis' will be long forgotten. People will start going to Harry for their birthday cakes and any baking needs and all the flour Louis' used to accumulating on his hands and kitchen counter will be collected up into a ball by the wind, and left idly in the corner of his kitchen like a tumble weed, and all of his dreams will be dead.

It’s before ten in the morning, okay. Louis can be dramatic if he wants to be.

“Yeah, but, um. Don’t have it on me. Sorry. I’ll give it to you some other time,” he says, and he begins to walk away before Sarah steps out of her flat and accuses him of having a competitive streak.

“Could you write it down?” Harry calls.

“I don’t have a pen, sorry!”

::

Someone on the third floor gets a promotion, and though Louis doesn’t talk to Annie a lot, when he hears that Louis is baking her a congratulatory cake, he immediately pulls out his baking tray.

Louis makes her a chocolate fudge cake that he knows from past encounters that she likes at least a little bit, and he hopes Harry hasn’t known her long enough to know that she really isn’t a fan of any flavour coffee related.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t go with the coffee cake, and he’s well aware of her likes and dislikes. When Louis goes up to Annie’s apartment, Harry is already there with his freshly baked presents. He bakes her 16 cupcakes with chocolate and vanilla frosting, with strawberry sprinkles and iced letters spelling out the word CONGRATULATIONS over each, with an extra one for an exclamation point, and Louis wants to hit his head against the kitchen table they are both displayed on. Annie thanks them both profusely, but Harry’s are thoughtful and pretty, and Louis decides that chocolate fudge cakes are so basic.

“Your cake looks great, Louis,” Harry says, polite and genuine as ever, and Louis is sure he’s mocking him.

“Thanks,” he says. “I, uh, just happened to hear about Annie’s promotion, and I had this baking already so I thought, you know, why not?”

He definitely doesn’t mention the speed walk he’d made down to the corner shop when he’d been out of eggs or stirring until his arm ached with his eyes on the clock. The best way to win a competition, surely, is to not let your opponent know there is a competition.

“That’s really nice of you,” Harry says, and he smiles. “I’m sure Annie will love it.”

Louis has a coughing fit as he attempts to say, “you too.”

::

Ted opens the door to his flat with a mouthful of lemon drizzle.

“Sup,” he says, spraying crumbs everywhere, and Louis groans.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

::

Louis doesn’t even like Mr Jenkins, but that doesn’t stop him staying up half the night to bake him a tray full of cobbler to celebrate his birthday.

When he and Harry turn up at his flat at the same time, both carrying their cakes and struggling to knock on his door, with Harry presenting a hummingbird cake that Louis' pretty sure he actually wants to marry, he’s sure Harry is well aware of the competition.

::

“This is getting ridiculous,” Louis says. “Every time I come up with an idea and I think, yes, yes this will be it. I can pull this off and it’ll be better than Styles', he has to be one step ahead of me. Christ, I’m pretty sure he’s sold his soul to Lucifer to stay this ahead of the game and be this good at baking.”

“Calm down, Lou,” Sarah tells him, patting him on the shoulder. “You’re going to work yourself into a fit.”

“This is no time for staying calm, Sarah! I need to have the upper-hand. Think. Is there anything coming up that I can bake for?”

“Um, not that I know of-”

“Darcy’s birthday is coming up, isn’t it?”

“Louis, her birthday was months ago. You should know. You were there.”

Louis sighs. “Couldn’t you have had another child?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, how inconsiderate of me not to have had more children on the off-chance that you became involved in a baking battle with the new tenant,” Sarah says dryly.

“Not really a fan of the sarcasm, but I’ll accept the apology all the same.”

“Why don’t you bake Harry a cake?” Sarah asks, and Louis raises his eyebrows.

“Give the enemy a cake? Why would I do that? He’ll probably like, analyse it to find the recipe and improve it just to spite me.”

Sarah winks. “Well, you know. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“…What exactly are you insinuating?”

::

“Yo,” Ted says, standing outside of Louis' apartment door at six in the evening for reasons entirely unknown.

“Hello, Ted.”

“So, Sarah tells me you and Harry are baking hate cakes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Like hate sex, basically, except instead of the fucking you’re trying to out bake each other, and the reason you’re baking is because you want to fuck each other.”

“Goodbye, Ted.”

::

Louis shows up at Sarah’s apartment after Darcy is picked up from school with a box full of ice cream cake, for no reason other than the fact that it’s not a special occasion, and so Harry won’t be able to anticipate his move and outdo him.

And because Darcy is a wonderful child, who he loves a lot. Obviously.

The door opens, and Louis says, “quick, this needs to go in the freezer before it melts.”

Sarah sighs. “Lou, Harry just bought a cake over on Saturday. Darcy hasn’t even finished that one yet.”

“…You’re kidding me.”

“Louis-”

“This is war.”

::

There’s a small gathering on the first floor because two of the residents, Paul and Jenna, get engaged over the weekend, and they celebrate with a bottle of wine and Louis' red velvet cake. Harry is nowhere in sight, and Louis can’t help but love the familiar feeling of warmth and happiness that comes along with everybody telling him how good his baking is. Harry’s name isn’t even mentioned – mainly, probably, because Ted’s mouth remains full – and Louis feels like maybe he’s winning here.

And then there’s a knock at the door.

“That must be Harry,” Jenna says. “I’ll just go and let him in-”

At the mention of Harry’s name, Louis, in a civilised and coordinated manner that is very much accustomed to his personality, chokes on his drink and falls into a horrific coughing fit that has Ted convulsing with laughter, Sarah smirking, and Paul amidst others looking very confused.

“Am I missing something?” he asks.

“Louis and Harry are having a cake feud,” Sarah tells him, and that doesn’t appear to make it any clearer for him.

When Harry enters the room carrying a plate full of delicious looking chocolate brownies, Louis splutters more, and Harry looks concerned.

“Is he alright?” Harry asks.

“He’s fine,” Ted replies, waving it off and slapping Louis hard in the back as his coughing comes to a halt.

“Yeah,” Louis rasps, “I’m peachy.”

When Harry offers him a brownie, Sarah is silently crying with laughter, and Louis doesn’t know how to say no without looking rude.

Louis was never good at biology, but he knows enough to know how orgasms occur, and he’s fairly sure that Harry’s baking has just breached the general rules of biology.

::

“Why does Harry’s baking make me feel like I’ve been raised from the dead?” Louis asks Ted the next afternoon, while they’re lugging his Tesco bags up the stairs.

From the above them, Louis hears a familiar laugh, and he scowls, and Ted smirks.

::

Louis has been on the phone, pacing around his apartment for the past hour.

“Grandma, for the last time, I don’t fancy him, it’s a matter of dignity-”

::

When Louis bakes Mrs Williamson a strawberry shortcake, he is in no way surprised to find a cheesecake already stood on her kitchen counter, half-eaten and covered by a bowl for preservation.

“Thank you dear,” Mrs Williamson says, smiling at him. “Say, would you like a taste of Harry’s cheesecake? It’s very good.”

“I’m alright,” Louis says. “But thank you for the offer.”

“You two should get to know each other better,” she continues. “Harry’s a lovely boy. The two of you could get on really well, I think, if you gave him a chance…”

There’s a twinkle in her eye, and Louis decides he doesn’t trust her.

He listens to her talk about how lovely Harry is for half an hour, with a flutter in his chest, slightly, and a question against his own motives. But it’s only because it’s polite to listen to little old ladies, not because of the subject matter. Obviously.

::

At mid-morning on a Sunday, when Louis opens the door with still slightly bleary eyes and messy hair, he’s not really expecting Harry to be on the other side of the door.

“Hi,” Harry says.

Louis blinks, surprised to see him, and he thinks it’s unfair for him to look so good this early in the morning – and then he curses his friends for putting these ideas into his head.

“Hey,” he replies. “Um, morning?”

“Morning,” Harry clears his throat. “I was wondering if I could have that recipe for the Victoria sponge? Yours was really good, and my mum’s birthday is coming up, and she loves it, so-”

“Oh, um, sure,” Louis says. And then he realises he’d kind of been twisting the truth, as he doesn’t have a recipe written down, per say, only one in his head, which he has devised himself over the years. “I, uh, don’t actually have it written down anywhere.”

Harry says, “if you don’t want to give it to me, I get it, it’s fine-”

And Louis feels terrible, because Harry is nice, and he’s been a twat, and Harry isn’t competitive at all and this fued has been entirely one-sided, and it’s a little ridiculous. At first, he hadn’t wanted to give Harry his famous Victoria sponge recipe but now, somehow, there’s nothing he’d like to do more.

Staying up until the early hours watching Attack on Titan clearly wasn’t a good idea. Obviously, sleep deprivation is getting to him.

“No!” Louis yelps, startling Harry a little, and he flushes. “Um, I mean. I honestly just don’t have it written down. I can – I could show you how to make it, if you like?”

“Are you sure?” Harry asks, looking a bit surprised, and Louis nods.

“Yeah, of course. Are you free now? I’m sure I have the ingredients.”

Harry steps inside. “Thank you so much, Louis, this is really generous of you. Are you sure you have the time? I don’t want to like, take up your Sunday or anything-”

Somewhere within the sincerity of his voice and the memory of how good Harry’s first coffee cake tasted, Louis realises, absently, that he has a crush on Harry Styles.

::

His hands are covered in flour, and Harry is stirring the cake mixture in the bowl, and Louis thinks about how he hasn’t baked with anybody since he left Wokingham and his grandma’s pokey little kitchen.

“Am I doing okay?” Harry asks, and Louis tells him the truth:

“Course you are. You’re doing great,” he pauses. “You’re a brilliant baker, Harry, it’s actually kind of upsetting.”

Harry laughs. “You underestimate how good you are,” he shakes his head. “I could never measure up to you.”

“Please. Have you tried your brownies? I honestly think they could probably raise the dead.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Harry smirks, and Louis remembers the hall way incident and blushes.

“Listen-”

“I thought you didn’t like me,” Harry admits, and he’s not looking at Louis, focused upon stirring, and there is a splatter of cake mixture on the apron Louis leant him, and his hands are caked in flour.

“What?” Louis asks, confused, his eyebrows pulling together into a frown. “Why?”

“Well, you always seemed a bit hostile-”

“Ah.”

“And kind of weirdly territorial.”

“Right-”

“And you always looked at me a bit funny. And Ted was always making jokes.”

“Fucking Ted.”

“So, yeah. I thought you didn’t like me,” Harry finishes.

“No, you’ve got the wrong idea,” Louis insists. “I do like you. I’m just. Really dumb. And territorial, apparently. I like to think I don’t have a competitive streak. I totally do, though. Don’t tell Sarah I admitted that, but I totally have a competitive streak.”

Harry stares at him. “Okay.”

“And if we were playing Mario Kart, I’d totally blue shell you.”

“That’s-”

“And I was just competitive, because I was the best baker here, and then. Well. I wasn’t, because you were the best baker. And you’re also nicer than I am, probably. But I don’t hate you. I like you. I actually really like you but that’s – that’s beside the point,” Louis flushes, realising the words that just left his mouth, and Harry tilts his head to the side, and Louis wipes his floury hands upon his apron. “But I don’t hate you. It just turns out that I do have a competitive streak. And I’m a twat.”

“I think you’re a great baker, and maybe a little bit of a twat, but it’s okay. I like you too.”

“You do?” Louis blinks. “Wait, what?”

Harry shrugs. “You made a good first impression.”

“I accused you of being a recluse.”

“It was memorable,” Harry grins. “Can I kiss you, or is that against your kitchen rules?”

“My only kitchen rule is to keep pieces of fruit outside of baking,” Louis replies. “Other than that, we’re good.”

“Yeah?”

Louis smiles. “Yeah.”

Harry kisses him, and traces of flour end up on his cheeks, and Louis does not mind at all.


End file.
